TWO

 

 

Mike Hanley stared at the sign over the large double glass doors tucked into the impressive gray stone building.

 

Remember Incorporated

 

People were coming and going through the doors under the sign like any normal business office.

He stood across the street, his back against the wall of another building, just watching, trying to keep his old and frail body from being trampled by office workers in a hurry to get somewhere.

When he was younger, he had always been in a hurry as well. He couldn’t remember where exactly he was in a hurry to go on any given day, but he remembered the sensation of always being in that state of mind.

The day around him was warm, not hot, just warm, and the sidewalks on both sides of the busy four-lane street were crowded with all types, almost all wearing in one form or another the traditional New York black.

He loved this city. He had lived here his entire life.

That morning in his little retirement apartment bedroom, he had combed what was left of his gray hair, had donned a brown Ben Hogan-style golf hat, a new pair of blue slacks, and a loud orange shirt with dark blue suspenders. He knew he looked more like a clown than an eighty-nine-year-old man, but he didn’t care and it would make no difference.

He would never remember today.

The instructions that Remember Incorporated had given him were clear. He needed to pick one minute of his life to remember before he walked through the door.

“Dad?” the voice said, cutting through his memory.

The memory drifted into the background like smoke Mike couldn’t seem to hold onto.

“Dad, are you awake?”

Mike Hanley glanced up at the face of a smiling man who had called him dad. He had no idea who the person was. Or even what a dad was, for that matter.

“I’m awake,” Mike said.

“I brought you some lunch,” the man said, sitting down beside him and helping him get hold of the thing with three points on it. The man helped Mike with what he called lunch, then wiped off his face and took the tray away.

Mike watched him go, not really remembering why the man had been there in the first place.

Everything was so puzzling to Mike. He felt at times that he should know something or someone, but just didn’t.

He closed his eyes and a memory came flooding back in like smoke filling an empty balloon.

Mike was staring at the sign over the large double glass doors tucked into the impressive gray stone building.

 

Remember Incorporated

 

People were coming and going through the doors under the sign like any normal business office.

He stood across the street, his back against the wall of another building, just watching, trying to keep his old and frail body from being trampled by office workers in a hurry to get somewhere.

When he was younger, he had always been in a hurry as well. He couldn’t remember where exactly he was in a hurry to go on any given day, but he remembered the sensation of always being in that state of mind.

The day around him was warm, not hot, just warm, and the sidewalks on both sides of the busy four-lane street were crowded with all types, almost all wearing in one form or another the traditional New York black.

He loved this city. He had lived here his entire life.

That morning in his little retirement apartment bedroom, he had combed what was left of his gray hair, had donned a brown Ben Hogan-style golf hat, a new pair of blue slacks, and a loud orange shirt with dark blue suspenders. He knew he looked more like a clown than an eighty-nine-year-old man, but he didn’t care and it would make no difference.

He would never remember today.

The instructions that Remember Incorporated had given him were clear. He needed to pick one minute of his life to remember before he walked through the door.

And the memory had to be a clear one, sharp, usable.

One minute. Only one minute.

That was so unfair.